


In the Firelight

by Violetwylde



Series: Ficlet Collection [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Felching, Just the Tip, M/M, Rimming, cock and ball worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 15:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: In which John pays extra attention to Sherlock’s plush backside. Complete with cock and ball worship, and gratuitous nuzzling of the perineum.





	In the Firelight

Outside, darkness draped over the city like cold velvet. Fat snowflakes drifted lazily past the window, the sodium glow of streetlights burnishing them in gold. Winter on Baker Street.

Inside, the crackling warmth of fire radiated in amber waves, chasing away the shadows of nightfall. The light washed over a heap of pillows and a writhing mass of blankets and between the pop and sizzle of burning pine, soft moans filled the room. Post-case in 221B.

“Jesus.” John pulled back the blanket with a gasp.

They’d been snogging under the heavy down duvet for ages. Like bloody teenagers. Exchanging body heat with roaming hands and panting breaths until John had to come up for air.

Sherlock kissed at his throat, pulled at his hips, rocked up into his belly. He was insatiable and John couldn’t blame him—it’d been over a month since they’d last been anything resembling intimate. They’d been too busy dashing all over London on two back-to-back cases—tracking down a gang of art theives before apprehending a mistress-cum-murderer.

But the encroaching winter seemed to have sent the criminal classes into hibernation. Now they finally had the time to luxuriate in front of the baking heat of the fire and grind their bodies together until they remembered what it was like to be one.

John reached down between them, fingers skidding over sweat-damp skin. Sherlock sucked in a breath, tensed his stomach in anticipation. With a smile, John let his fingers dance along the edge of Sherlock’s pubic hair—teasing at the trimmed bush. He slipped his hand down the crease of pelvis and thigh and squeezed the tendon. Then trailed back up to the divot of his navel, just above the wet tip of Sherlock’s hard prick.

Sherlock rocked up again—seeking friction—but John angled his body away, denying any contact to his straining cock. And just when a whine began to crack in Sherlock’s throat, John curled his fist over the rock hard length. Sherlock released a gust of breath and tilted his head up for another kiss.

It was a sloppy thing—eager tongues and pliant lips and gently scraping teeth. It was moans passed back and forth with increasing urgency. It was too good to stop.

But John did. He broke away, smearing his lips across Sherlock’s jaw and groaning into his neck. “God, you’re so hard,” he murmured into warm skin. “Like a fucking iron rod.”

It wasn’t an empty platitude. Not just a sweet nothing meant to make Sherlock shiver. No. Sherlock was harder—thicker—than John could remember him ever being before. His hand stretched wide around the hot shaft as he pumped and pumped.

He wanted to see it, wanted to feel the heavy weight of it on his tongue. John pushed back, taking the blanket with him and uncovering the lean expanse of Sherlock’s body—pale skin licked golden by the fire, shadows of muscle and bone shifting under the dancing flames.

With his unoccupied hand, John traced down Sherlock’s hard chest. He tweaked playfully at a nipple, then slid his fingers over the gentle hills and valleys of Sherlock’s ribs. Down the ripple of his abdomen and finally cupping the jut of his hip.

John scooted back and Sherlock lifted his head, eyes bright with understanding. John pulled against the flex of Sherlock’s cock until in pointed lewdly at the ceiling. He leaned down, eyes locked onto Sherlock's—a steady gaze that said ’ _watch me and don’t you dare look away_ ’.

John’s tongue slipped out, broad and flat, and Sherlock whispered—whimpered—"John…“

John pressed against Sherlock’s frenulum, slipped his tongue over the weeping slit, and rolled it around the plump head—once, twice. He sank his mouth down, letting Sherlock’s girth part his lips and stretch his jaw with every inch. Where he would normally bury his face in the musky tickle of Sherlock’s pubes, tonight his nose barely brushed against the springy dark curls. He moaned—part disappointment, part fascination.

He reached between Sherlock’s legs and palmed his bollocks. They too felt heavier—heftier—than normal. They were already snug up against Sherlock’s body, ready to burst.

John extended two fingers and slipped them against the ridge of Sherlock’s perineum. He pressed deep and felt a trickle of precome against the back of his throat.

Slowly, John pulled away. He brought his hand to rest on Sherlock’s thigh and let his cock slip from his mouth as if it were a fragile thing—spun glass rather than steel.

“How long have you been like this?” John asked, ghosting his fingers along the prominent veins of Sherlock’s shaft.

Sherlock arched up, a moan slipping past his lips. “The last few days have been… ah. Frustrating.”

“I’d say.” John gave him a sympathetic squeeze. “God. Just look at you.“

John dragged his eyes over Sherlock’s gilt body. Christ the man was beautiful. He kneaded the dense muscle at the top of Sherlock’s thighs, framing is deeply flushed cock and hanging bollocks—wanting nothing more than to lavish him with pleasure.

"Roll over,” he said, a hushed command. “Put that gorgeous arse in the air.”

Sherlock bit his lip, then with a nod, rolled onto his stomach. He hoisted himself up on his knees, leaving his face pressed into the pillows.

“That’s it.” John smoothed his hand over the plush curve of Sherlock’s rump and down the slope of his back. “Just like that.”

He tapped at Sherlock’s knees, encouraging a wider stance, exposing the swaying delicacy of his undercarriage. Now that was a sight: Sherlock’s cock hanging, heavy and dripping; the sparse auburn hair of his balls glinting copper in the firelight; the thick ridge of his perineum leading to his tightly puckered hole. _Christ_.

Skimming his hands up the back of Sherlock’s thighs, John leaned in. He nuzzled into the warm crease between bollocks and thigh—mouth open in a gentle caress. Up and up, then brushing over the perineal bulge so lightly it made his lips tingle. Under his palms, Sherlock’s muscles quivered.

John slid his mouth back down, following the thin seam leading to Sherlock’s sac. “God,” he sighed into the skin. “This is lovely.”

He nibbled, felt the play of texture—supple and wrinkled and malleable—against his lips. Then against his tongue as he began to lap, slow and savoring. Wet open-mouthed kisses followed, trailing up once again from hanging curve to musky-sweet perineum.

But John didn’t stop there, he continued up, running his tongue over Sherlock’s hole—pressing against the resistant rim and slowly coaxing him open. Filthy sucking kisses had Sherlock moaning into his pillow, arching higher and seeking more.

"You like that, love?”

“John…” A high, thin whine.

“You want more? Tell me you want more.”

“Yes, John. Please, yes.”

With a bone-deep groan, John plastered his face between Sherlock’s cheeks. Licking and kissing and sucking until Sherlock’s hole was sopping wet and loose. He kissed down the ridge of him perineum again, letting his tongue slide into the furrow at either side, then sucked one ball firmly into his mouth. Sherlock stiffened and John felt the tips of fingers in his hair—Sherlock petting him as best as the angle would allow.

John released him with a pop and sat back to admire his handiwork. Sherlock glistened with saliva—from his slightly swollen anus all the way down to his tight bollocks. And that beautiful seam stretched the entire way.

John’s eyes drifted down to find Sherlock’s hanging cock—silhouetted in the firelight and throbbing. He wrapped his hand around the girth and stroked once from thick root to leaking tip. Sherlock shuddered, a single curse falling from his lips with a gracious rumble— _fffuuuuuuck_.

John stroked him again—one slow pass over the length of him. The again. He set a lethargic pace, meant more to rile Sherlock up than to offer him release.

And it worked. Within minutes he was leaking, panting, begging for _more, John, please, faster._

“You want more?” John asked, kissing Sherlock’s hip. “Take it.”

He stroked up to the head, then stilled. Squeezed. Slowly, as if unsure, Sherlock rolled his back and flexed his buttocks. When John offered no correction, he did it again—thrusting into John’s fist.

“That’s it. God that’s perfect,” John whispered, more to himself than to Sherlock. He watched the shift of muscles in the amber flicker of the fire. Watched the gentle sway of Sherlock’s bollocks.

John smoothed his other hand over Sherlock’s arse—palmed that luscious curve—then, mindful of his rhythm, lowered his face once more. He laved his tongue over and around Sherlock’s hole, flicked and licked. Sherlock cried out at the touch, pushing back harder and bearing down to offer up his greedy hole to John’s probing tongue.

John speared him, dipping and curling his tongue into the silken heat. He worked his mouth around the rim, eating at Sherlock’s hole—savoring his sharp musk. It was exquisitely messy work. Perfect.

Moans rumbled through Sherlock, growing louder, higher. He bucked into John’s fist in quick jabs, chasing his climax. John could feel the flutter of Sherlock’s hole around his tongue.

“Come, Sherlock,” John growled into the hot, wet skin. “Come on.” He smeared his tongue around his rI’m and pushed in as deep as he could.

Sherlock cried out, his hole clenching around John’s tongue. He came hot and hard over John’s hand, pulsing out thick ribbons until he shuddered with over sensitivity. The tension leached from his body, leaving him slumped over, arse up and face nestled in his pillow.

John pulled away and brought his come-covered hand to his own aching prick, stroking himself in a flurry. He’d been so focused on the beauty of Sherlock’s exposed undercarriage—his hanging cock and balls, that delicate seam tracing up the ridge of his perineum, and the delicious furl of his anus—that John had ignored his own need. But now, in the wake of Sherlock’s moaning, trembling climax, John felt it keenly.

Jacking himself fast and hard, he scooted forward to rub his wet head between Sherlock’s cheeks—groaning each time the tip of his cock caught against the slackened rim of Sherlock’s hole.

“You’re beautiful, Sherlock. Christ, you’re perfect. God, I love you so much.” John babbled, breathless. “I wanna be inside you. Can I? Can I just…”

John held himself just behind the crown of his cock and pressed in—dipped the very tip into the divot of Sherlock’s hole. It sucked at him, pulled him in another fraction of an inch, and John shuddered. He pulled back, rubbed around the pucker, and teased in again. He held there, pumping his tight fist along his shaft and letting the movement of his hand urge his cock to slide in… in… _in_ … until he’d sunk all the way up to the flaring crest.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock sighed. He stretched out luxuriously, body rolling and shifting, and clenched around the fat tip.

“Fuck!” John’s cock slipped from Sherlock’s hole. His hand flew, pumping and squeezing and twisting at the head. “Yes, Sherlock. Fuck, I’m gonna come. You want me to come in your arse? Or all over it?”

Sherlock moaned, arched higher. "Both.”

John grunted, the coil of pleasure snapping. The first streak landed across the dimple at Sherlock’s sacrum, the next sliding thick and milky down his crack. John pushed his cock against Sherlock’s hole, filling him with three more hot loads.

Finally spent, John fell back on his heels. His hands drifted to Sherlock’s hips, his forehead dropped to the plush curve of Sherlock’s arse. He panted against come-stained skin and tried to calm his racing heart.

“Christ, you’re amazing,” John murmured, his lips sliding through a cooling streak of semen. He followed the bitter taste with his tongue—cleaning the warm, golden skin. What he didn’t lap up he pushed back into Sherlock’s dripping hole, until there was nothing left.

He dragged Sherlock back into the nest of bedding, covering them with the duvet once again. John hugged Sherlock close—wrapped his arms tight around his middle and pressed soft kisses into the nape of his neck. Sherlock gave a contented sigh, pushing back into the embrace. Without the adrenaline of the case or the ardor of their lovemaking, exhaustion was quick to take over.

The fire flickered out, the embers smoldered. Outside, in the velvet night, the snow continued to fall.


End file.
